subterranean

My daughter is a subterranean dweller. She descends a flight of stairs and enters a refreshing and perpetually cool space. While the rest of us wilt and droop in the afternoon heat, she slips on woolly socks and sips Earl Grey.
Not long after she settled into her new abode, a wayward frog leapt carelessly into her window well. He entertained us by clambering up the glass, his toes and fingers like tiny suction cups. He was as cute as any frog could be.
This past week, upon exiting her home, my daughter spotted a tiny frog perched on a wooden sign propped outside her door. Two subterranean dwellers exchanged appreciative glances.